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From duldrums to dullards to dead 2:11 p.m. 2008-09-26 She said I'll write you poems from the other side once I throw these feelings that have been haunting me (will-o-the-wisps and firefly hourglasses) from the tip-top precipice and I find a new way to write. With my fingers gone and my toes fading numb the winter seems less like a play thing she told me. I've got a lantern and a cigarette darling, I light my smokes with gas stoves, mark the place where the gorgeous stove in my heartstrings and scrap my boots over the cracking quiet pavement of this city; I'll leave my mark I swear. In the meantime we'll while away the hours with tamberines and windchimes, a bottle and bare feet (she always looks best with toes cuddled under the sheets). I've got stains on my elbows and knees from crawling forever to you, I've got scraps on my forehead from trying to follow the flow of jet-liners, I've got an ache in my chest that sings to me sinful songs with my lust playing counterpoint when I think of you. She said i'll write you love poems from the other side once I find some directions and I sit on the edge of wishing-wells and penny-littered mossy fountains and wonder at the focus and fury that spins these silly lovers around me like silk in windstorms. back & forth |